


our little remedy

by chaosy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Dancer Enjolras, M/M, makeup artist but whatever, nonsense of the highest order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 00:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16028873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosy/pseuds/chaosy
Summary: Enjolras is a dancer. He meets Grantaire on a film set and is wholly unprepared for everything about him.





	our little remedy

**Author's Note:**

> woke up and was presented with the delightful idea of grantaire as a makeup artist, so here we are. fic's original intention was as a gift for cinda, as per usual. I actually work in film production but have taken gentle creative liberties for fic purposes - nothing should feel too jarring I hope. title is from hozier - moment's silence (a banger).
> 
> currently looking for betas! I'm very inactive on tumblr (sorry) but if you'd be interested then drop a comment and we can email about it.
> 
> as always, thank you so much for reading, I'm very warmed by the kind words that have been left on my work.

It takes him two hours to get to the location. This has been planned, of course, and it’s in his schedule on his phone, colour coded in amber, but still. His call is for six in the morning, and it takes him  _ two hours to get to the location _ . Enjolras is angry before he’s even stepped on set and he hasn’t even met the director yet.

He doesn’t like doing music videos. They want him to do swoopy, flashy choreography and follow him around with a big black camera and accidentally disrupt him every time. They spend ages fussing over him; in the makeup chair, with the stylist, with the director manhandling him into a good position for the cameras. If he’s unlucky, the artist will be filming with him, or will  _ stop by _ to watch and loudly ask what the hell he’s doing.

Or, if he’s truly unlucky, someone hits on him and he politely turns them down and then the whole twelve or sixteen hour shoot is  _ awkward _ .

He has no idea about the singer who wanted dancers for her music video, outside of the choreo he’d learned with the other girl he’s been paired with - Eponine. Who is already sat in the makeup chair when he arrives, tapping at her phone.

“You’re late,” she says to him, as he takes a seat. Despite the fact that he looked at his watch when he came in and he knows it’s exactly seven minutes to six, he looks at his watch again.

“No I’m not,” he says, defensively. “I’m on time.”

“If you’re on time you’re late,” Eponine replies, looking far too amused and comfortable for a cold studio at a godawful hour of the morning. “If you’re early you’re on time.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “It’s seven - six minutes to six. I’m early. Therefore on time. Is that coffee?”

Two minutes later, he has a coffee, although it’s instant and watered down. He overhears one of the runners complaining about the fact that this is work experience and makes a mental note to text his agent about the bullshit of this so called  _ high budget _ production that won’t, apparently, be paying their runners.

“ _ Grantaire _ ,” Eponine’s warm voice startles him out of his stewing. The makeup artist is here, half hidden by a massive fucking cart of equipment, and then he sets it by the vanity and steps out from behind it and holy shit -

_ Grantaire _ .

Enjolras doesn’t know Grantaire. He’d seen his name on the call sheet and dismissed it, only thinking it a bit strange that only one person was doing their makeup when it was quite a heavy duty job, apparently. 

“Eponine!” Grantaire’s voice is low and musical. Enjolras stares at the reflection of him in the mirror, frozen, because  _ Jesus Christ _ .

“I didn’t know you were on this shitshow too,” Grantaire says, kissing her cheeks, and Enjolras deflates. He doesn’t know much about Eponine - their practice sessions were 90% dancing, 10% pleasantries, but the pair of them look very comfortable together especially as Grantaire wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind.

Eponine laughs, leans back into him. Enjolras has never seen her smile this much. “Shitshow is about right. I tried to tell the director about needing twenty minutes to warm up and he didn’t even want to know. He says we won’t even have time to have a proper lunch break.”

“What?” That’s enough to startle Enjolras out of his reverie, interrupting Grantaire’s sympathetic talk. “We have to warm up. It’s physically - we’ll endanger ourselves if we don’t. Does he not know that  _ union rules  _ stipulate that stunts and dancers need a full lunch break? And not scheduling enough time isn’t an extenuating circumstance. I can call my -”

“Alright,” Grantaire cuts across him smoothly, and Enjolras is so shocked that he just stays quiet. “Easy, one would think you’re a lawyer rather than a dancer. I’ll just speed up here, then you get your time, see?”

Enjolras shakes his head as Grantaire starts fiddling around with primers and brushes. “No, you shouldn’t have to rush your own work to compensate for the producer’s fuck up. It’s a health and safety risk.”

Grantaire shrugs. “No skin off my nose. I’m quick. No point causing a whole fight,” he says, rolling up his sleeves to reveal some complicated looking tattoo up his left arm and Enjolras deserves credit for how he manages to stay coherent.

“There’s exactly a point,” Enjolras says, twisting in his chair. Eponine is clearly not listening and on her phone again as Grantaire pins back her hair. “They need to know -”

“I’d rather Grantaire wasn’t stopping my makeup every two seconds to argue with you about union stipulations,” Eponine interrupts, arching an eyebrow at him. “If you want to debate, take it up with the production, not the makeup artist.”

Enjolras opens his mouth again and she holds up a hand. “I’m not above tripping you up,” she says. He shuts his mouth.

In the quiet, punctuated by Grantaire and Eponine talking quietly to each other about mutual friends and plans for the weekend, Enjolras gets to watch him work. Most makeup artists Enjolras has met are female and are cheerful but like to simply focus on his face. But Grantaire is chatty, constantly asking Eponine’s opinion and explaining what he’s doing. His hands are clever and halfway through he pulls his own messy curls into a bun and Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek so his mouth won’t drop open.

He’s good, too. Normally he does stage, but commercial work pays well and Enjolras has rent to worry about, and he’s been in a makeup chair enough to recognise when an artist is talented and Grantaire is exactly that. He does a light layer of foundation and powder and strokes deft, sharp white lines across Eponine’s eyes, making her dark brown irises even more stark and arresting. He adds a hint of blue to the ends of her lashes and mixes greasepaints on his hand until he comes up with a perfect coral to match her dark skin. She looks completely transformed, like an exotic bird.

“Now, you,” Grantaire says, letting Eponine go and get some breakfast and giving her a straw so she doesn’t mess her lipstick. “You look - fuck. You must know how you look. But you’ve got very different colouring to Eponine, you’ve got nice freckles I’d like to keep.”

Enjolras shrugs, flushing at the compliments. “Whatever you think is appropriate. Most makeup artists cover them up.”

“A crime,” Grantaire says, carefully applying a moisturiser to Enjolras’s face. “Anyone who covers up your features deserves their union membership  _ stripped away _ . I’m not most makeup artists, ange,” he says with a quick grin. Enjolras, powerless, manages a half smile back.

He’s not really prepared for having Grantaire so close to his face for such an extended period of time. He’s used to the proximity and how it’s not really personal, because makeup artists just focus more on their canvas rather than the fact that there’s an actual person there, but Enjolras feels his stomach flip every time Grantaire catches him looking.

“Look up for me,” Grantaire says, all teasing gone, his voice soft and a little sweet. He touches gently at the hinge of Enjolras’s jaw to guide him and his hand falters, his expression twisting.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just - your heartbeat is pretty fast,” Grantaire says, and the fucker is  _ grinning _ , and Enjolras is so horrifically embarrassed that he blushes and that just makes Grantaire smile  _ wider _ .

Eponine walks back in. Grantaire’s hand rapidly leaves his face and Enjolras can’t as easily hide his blush but he tries. Eponine just looks at the two of them and snorts, eating a protein bar in small, careful bites.

The rest of his makeup passes quickly. Enjolras uses the time to stare at Grantaire when he’s not looking and Grantaire absolutely notices and shoots him little private grins. Enjolras has almost forgotten about their argument. He doesn’t even realise he’s finished until Grantaire steps back and - 

He doesn’t look good. Well. He does look  _ good _ , but he’s used to being contoured, his lashes made darker and longer, he’s used to a little shadow and powder and being smoothed out and erased to be remade, but better. Grantaire hasn’t done that. He’s not used a foundation, just a tinted moisturiser, has put little flecks of gold on his skin that hide amongst his freckles and has sprayed a little more into the ends of his hair. Against Eponine’s mostly black and white makeup Enjolras is blue, and purple, and pink and red and orange. 

“Like birds,” Grantaire is explaining to Eponine. “Males are generally more colourful, as they have to impress the female, and your whole dance is him chasing after you a lot, so I thought it was - I thought it fit,” he says, suddenly less confident. He almost seems nervous.

Eponine peers at Enjolras, grinning. “Looks good. You look like a peacock acid trip,” she says. Grantaire laughs, squeezes her shoulder but he’s peering at Enjolras worriedly to gauge his reaction.

Enjolras coughs, clears his throat after so long not speaking. “It looks brilliant. I love it. Thank you,” he says, honestly, and Grantaire gives him this warm, brilliant smile and Enjolras feels something inside him lift.

They’re called onto set about a minute after Grantaire lets the assistant director know they’re ready. Enjolras leans over to Eponine once they’re out of the dressing room, his voice quiet. 

“So you’re - not together,” he says, haltingly. 

Eponine looks at him with a mixture of pity, incredulity, and amusement. It’s not the best combination. “Can you keep it in your pants until we’re wrapped?” she says, which is not an answer but also most definitely is.

“Absolutely,” Enjolras says, and they go to wardrobe.

He lets his focus settle when they finally roll cameras and they start moving. Eponine is a strong, willful dancer, whereas Enjolras is more malleable, and it works well for their choreo. They have him hold her in a lift for far too long for a specific shot and his arms start quivering a little bit by the time they cut but it’s slow going. He’s not used to so much stopping and starting. Eponine acts a lot, so she takes to it with ease.

“You’re doing well,” she says to him, which he would bristle at if she wasn’t so obviously the better dancer. 

“Thanks,” Enjolras says. “You too.” And the director calls for action and they start moving again. There’s a slight issue where Enjolras’s jacket just keeps getting in the fucking  _ way _ , is too tight around his shoulders and looks ridiculous when he raises his arms, but other than that he finds himself actually enjoying things.

Grantaire shows up at one point, when he’s unpleasantly sweaty under the lights. He tries to apologise and gets waved off quickly. 

“You’re fine,” Grantaire says, and hands him some water with a straw. He spritzes Enjolras with a setting spray and carefully touches up the blue around his temples before patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve been watching on the monitors. Looking good, ange,” he tells him.

Enjolras flushes again. “It’s Enjolras,” he says.

Grantaire shrugs. “You have angel written into your  _ name _ . I call it like I see it. I’ll be around if you need another touch up,” he says, and shoots him a bright, terrible smile before he disappears again.

Eponine gives him a truly devastating side-eye. “Are you really going to sleep with my best friend? I was hoping we could end this job and go our separate ways,” she says. 

“I’m going to do my fucking best,” Enjolras mutters, and they stand there quietly for a second before Eponine sniggers, and they start laughing at each other. Enjolras finds himself feeling lighter.

Shockingly, they get their lunch break, and an additional warm up time. Enjolras is picking at his spinach when he hears one of the runners say  _ makeup artist threatened to walk off. Said something about union rules _ .

After their break ends, he dances better than he’s done in months.

They wrap and Enjolras, reluctantly, washes the artwork off of his face. He can leave pretty much immediately - the crew who are packing down have a longer time on set than he does - but he lingers, awkwardly, until Eponine pulls him out of the studio and tells him to wait by the gates instead of getting in everyone’s way.

“I expect I’ll see you soon,” she says to him, the sky turning pink with the sunset above her head. 

Enjolras presses his lips together before answering. “I hope so,” he says.

“You will,” she replies, confidently, and pulls her jacket tighter around herself. “Grantaire, he -” She breaks off, looking careful and considering for a second, her face pinching. “Be nice,” she says eventually.

Enjolras nods. “I will if he is,” he says, managing a smile that’s not horrifically awkward because Eponine scares the actual bones out of him. It seems like the right thing to say, because she claps him on the shoulder before they say their goodbyes.

Enjolras leans against the railing, watching her car drive off, fiddling with his phone until he feels a tap on his shoulder.

“Waiting for the bus?” Grantaire says. He looks looser, calmer now that they’ve wrapped, the faintest smudges of paint still visible on his hand. 

“I drove,” Enjolras says. He’s quite beautiful. “I live in Paris. Saint-Denis.”

“Well then,” Grantaire says, cheerfully. “I live in Le Bourget, so you can give me a ride home, if you like.” And then his expression twists when Enjolras doesn’t immediately answer. “I mean - sorry. That’s a little presumptuous, I didn’t - you’re not obligated to give me a lift.”

For once, Enjolras is the one cutting him off. “It’s fine,” he says. “Come on. I’ll drive you home. It’s only fair, considering you did such an excellent job with the makeup.”

Grantaire hums, shaking his head as they get into Enjolras’s cramped little Nissan. “You were the one who  _ danced _ . You were great. Although - speaking of, you still have a little - on your face.”

Enjolras lifts his hand to scrub at his cheek. Some of the gold comes off on his fingers.

“I’ve got a load of wipes in my kit,” Grantaire is saying, fiddling with his bag at his feet. “Here.”

Enjolras doesn’t take the proffered wipe. He catches Grantaire’s wrist, pulls him in and kisses him. It’s lush and warm and too fucking short.

Grantaire huffs out a breath against his mouth and Enjolras thrills as he can feel him smile before they’re kissing again. It’s not too short this time. Grantaire’s hand creeps up his jaw and Enjolras presses his fingers against his shoulder, their heads tilting together.

“Le Bourget, you said,” he murmurs. Grantaire nods, kisses him again. “What street?”

“Pierre Curie,” Grantaire responds. He’s moved his kissing to Enjolras’s neck, pressing very gentle and utterly incendiary kisses against where his heart is beating so fast. “Number 15. Although you’ll be coming inside, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, dreamily. This can’t be  _ real _ . He’s not aware that he’s said that out loud until Grantaire laughs and says  _ yes it is _ , and releases him with a long kiss to his cheek.

They smile at each other. Enjolras doesn’t move to start the engine yet. It can wait just a couple minutes longer.


End file.
